


Shallow Vision

by SophieB



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Internal Monologue, M/M, One Shot, Randomness, Satire, Stream of Consciousness, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 17:34:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2437064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophieB/pseuds/SophieB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Potter is rather whiney at times, isn't he? And now he whines about the fact that he gets to have sex with Draco Malfoy.  Written previous to the release of OotP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shallow Vision

**Author's Note:**

> Just some good ol' fashioned Harry angst. This was written... oh I'd say sometime just before Order of the Phoenix came out, so it is oooold. I haven't retouched it or anything, but it's one thing that I haven't posted on ff.net, so I thought I should post it here. It's just a stream of consciousness random thingy that's very much a parody (though, I wouldn't really put it in the humor genre). Thanks for reading!

* * *

 

Anal sex is an odd sort of thing. I would have said queer, but you'd think I was being facetious. I am dead serious. It's one of those things you should do every week or two just because you're a couple and it's what couples do. We've been doing it nearly everyday. I don't like it. I don't like the idea of it, of being inside him like that. It just feels so... wrong. Not wrong in the traditional sense, but wrong with him in particular. To be able to do that to my one-time enemy, to receive that kind of pleasure from it--it feels as if I'm taking advantage of him. He's not delicate by any means, but he has no trouble making people believe he is. I suppose I'm just playing into the illusion he likes to perpetuate, but knowing and believing are two separate states, not nearly as interlinked as one might suspect. Neither is so helpful to me, when all I have to go on is what he tells me. And I still don't know if I can trust him. I still don't know if he trusts me.

I ask him, sometimes, if I can be the bottom for once. I want to show him how much faith I have in him. I even demand it. But he only laughs at me. "Harry, you don't know how to play the part. You'll hurt yourself, love," he says patting me on the cheek, the smirk just itching right under the surface, barely kept hidden.

I try to object until he drops to his knees in front of me and takes me into his mouth, licking and sucking and doing all those things I like until I'm hard. And he looks up at me innocent and wide-eyed when he's doing it--like a little child twirling a lolly in its mouth. And I think I want to pull away from him. It should be easy, like taking candy from a baby. But I don't do that sort of thing. He then releases me and stands, takes my hand and leads me into the bedroom.

The physical sensation is good. I'll admit that. The friction, the heat is like nothing else. But still, in general, I'd rather not do it if it's all the same. Which, for him, it's not. It's not an unpleasant experience by any means, though he tries very hard to make it one. You know, the usual twisted games; he makes me call him things, 'whore', 'bitch' and the more disturbing 'Slytherin scum', or 'daddy's little Deatheater'. I don't like it. It's sick. But what can I do when he lays there on the bed just for me... asking me so insistently to say things to him, do things to him.

He already has the power. He says I do, that I want it. But no. I've never wanted that responsibility. All there is in the world is power and he tells me I own the world, that it's mine. I have all the power. But he's wrong. I don't want it. Ever. Until I'm in him, and it feels too good to ever dream of denying myself, of course.

But that's also his to give me, an illusion of control, and he does give. And give and give. I can't figure him out. One would think I would have by now. I'm not thick. It's just--he's not that transparent. I still haven't figured out if it's a charade. Whether he's sincere when he says the things he says. Whether he can be sincere at all.

I would interrogate him, flush him out, force him... do something to him... but even that would be something that he dictated, planned, and initiated. I could hurt him but he'd want it. He knows me too well. What can you do when there's nothing to hold over your nemesis' head? When he invites and thrills in everything you do to him... and you'll always lose because he doesn't feel guilt and you do. Even if I left him, the most horrible punishment I could think of now, he would take it in stride. Even though he needs me, he knows I need him more. And he would be happy to go along just so that I can feel the loss. He's a Slytherin to the core. He'd do anything to get one up on me... even if he gets hurt in the process. Like I said before, it's sick.

He has it all worked out now, every word I speak, every movement of my hips, every time I touch him--I'm his puppet. He makes me fuck him. He pulls those strings so tight. I could pound into him harder, do him rougher, but I don't know what that will do. I don't know if that's what he has planned for me. I don't know what to do, which way to go that he hasn't predetermined--a fate already chosen for me, by him of all people. He says I'll get hurt if I get fucked. I'm already fucked and he knows it. And it does hurt.

I still don't know if he tricked me into this or if I chose it. Because, why would I ever purposefully choose this? I never chose anything, not my parents' deaths, not this scar on my forehead, not this destiny set in my hands. I couldn't have chosen this, either. He did it. He is a Slytherin. He's not above manipulation.

I know it feels good for him when we do it, but not nearly as good as it is for me... I think. I try to make it better. I try to reach around and stroke him as I fuck him. But he pushes me away--he doesn't let me. And with every thrust into him, my guilt grows--the deeper I go, the better it feels--until I finally explode and the exhaustion overtakes me and numbs me to those feelings for just a little while. I don't like to take him like he forces me to do. I don't like to get more than he does. I'm not like that. But he doesn't let me. I would think he's some kind of masochist if I didn't know how completely self-worshipping he is. I wonder sometimes if he does it to put me out. And all the other times I know that's exactly why he does it. Sometimes, he doesn't even come, just to make me feel guilty. He smiles and says it's okay, it's not my fault, as if he's doing this all for me and nothing matters to him but my pleasure. Then he leaves me there and goes to the bathroom to wank, slamming the door in my face. I don't know from where he gets that kind of control. He hasn't always had it. Has he?

I don't like anal, because I don't like to lose control. I feel guilty about fucking my boyfriend.

I shouldn't have taken him up on his offer, that one night, those very few years ago. Granted, he didn't offer so much in words. So I can't blame him for us being the way we are. I suppose ultimately the blame lies on me for expecting too much. Or too little. Some people say I demand the world from everyone I know. Because I had nothing before, I have to have everything now. But it's not true at all. I only expect the world from him, and he makes it seem as if only he could ever give it to me. Only he could make me want it in the first place.

He grabbed me one night when I was out in my cloak; I think it must have been close to one because the moon was just so in the sky (damned Astronomy. I had a watch; I needn't have had the stupid moon distracting me). He grabbed me by the arm and started to lead me away. I struggled, I really did. I've never been known to have a weak will. I don't give in so easily. Especially not to people like him. So I don't know what happened--how he managed it. Destiny? Magic? Ah, but that's my excuse for everything, isn't it.

I stopped him right before we'd reached the third floor and demanded of him to tell me how he knew where I was, how he had managed to grab me. I was invisible after all. And Malfoy was no Mad-Eye Moody to see through my magic. He just laughed and told me I was simply obvious. It had been no great chore for him to figure me out. I scowled at him and grumbled something or another, and he sighed--so deeply one would have thought he held the weight of the world on his thin, scrawny shoulders, instead of the thin material of his silk pajamas--and sat down on the steps, patting the place beside him. I sat down next to him. That must have been it, the deciding moment. I sat down. And he told me he knew because he had heard my footsteps.

It seems he had learned how to listen for them when I would follow him through the halls late at night. I had been following him a lot those days (just to make sure he wasn't up to something you understand). I suppose I was too big to move with the stealth I achieved in my first year at school. My foot fell heavier and hollower on the stone than I'd realized. It's not like I wanted to get caught or anything.

But all the time, he had known. So. I wasn't spying on him at all; he was leading me along. Even then he had been pulling those strings. Just like now. And so, he kissed me. And on a lark, I kissed him back and, of course, a bit later in the night had sex with him right there uncomfortably and awkwardly on the staircase. It wasn't meaningless though. I'm not sure what it did mean, what it means now. But it must mean something to us, otherwise, we wouldn't still be doing it after two years. Right?

Seventeen is a good age to lose your virginity to your worst enemy. You can just chalk it up to youthful stupidity and hormones. And I think that's exactly what it was. I knew it right as soon as we'd finished. Well, I'd hoped, at least. Of course, Draco'd had other ideas. Like he tends to.

After all was said and done (though mostly done), the bastard had the audacity to tell me, "Harry, I want you." And he had the audacity to make it sound so unbearably sweet and horribly undeniable.

I felt the irritation well up inside of me. I couldn't say no. Not when he sounded so hopeful. I should have known better. There's a difference between hope and desire. Desire contains a sort of inherent darkness, a lustful greed. Looking back now, it should have been easy to see that shadow encasing Draco's intentions. At the time, I'd felt like wrapping my hands around his balmy swan neck and squeezing just to see how much paler this pale boy could get. Just to show how little he effected any good in my life, just how wrong he was for me or for anyone really. I really did want to punch him in the nose. I really should have.

Instead, I answered back, "Oh really? And here I thought this was all to let me know how much you don't want anything to do with me," piling on as much sarcasm as I could muster without sounding too much like him. That gave him a good laugh, to be sure, and made me want to kill him even more--and I would have. But fortunately (unfortunately?) I hadn't my wand at that moment. And I wasn't apt to do it with my bare hands considering what would happen if I touched him again.

'I want you.' He could have told me before we fucked. Maybe then I could have stayed away from the very beginning. If he had said so before, maybe I wouldn't have followed him all those nights. Maybe I wouldn't have let him play me like he does, if I had been prepared and on my guard. Maybe I would have stayed the hell away from him. But then, again, maybe not. It wasn't his responsibility to make sure I knew. I'm just taking it out on him. It was my fault all along. My choice. I really want to believe that.

I always had an inkling of something different in me, and then I'd found the reasons for that feeling in my past and my proscribed future, and it all made sense. A wizard, a hero, a fate--they seemed to fit. But I'd never imagined I was less than straight. Well maybe I had imagined it once or twice, but I figured it was just that--my imagination. I had no idea I would come around to it so easily though. I had no idea I would be such a slut. But only with him. Is that possible?

All I can remember is being very randy. It seems almost comical now. I meet my archrival in the hallway. "Oh hello, Draco, my most hated enemy. Nice night, isn't it? Want to screw?" "Sure, why not, lovely idea. Torturing small furry animals was getting old anyhow. Let's fuck." Whoever said romance is dead, must have been using us as a case study...

I wonder sometimes, whatever gave him the idea that Harry Potter would be a good fuck. How was it that he saw me as a sexual being (never seems like anyone else does; that would be too normal of me). Am I that needy? Am I really that obvious... ah, but then, that was his point, wasn't it. He knew I was a virgin. But I'm a natural he tells me. I don't know whether it's to make me feel better or to embarrass me horribly. He likes to embarrass me. He's good at it. Better than he is at giving head, than he is at Quidditch (though, that's not saying much, is it?), than he is at potions, or even sucking up to his father. Well, they do say practice makes perfect, don't they. And he's had what, eight years of it?

Do I love him? Yeah, sure, why not. It's not hard to fall in love. It's even easier with him because he demands it of me. He demands that I love him. Does he love me? He loves me when it's convenient for him. Other times... it's anybody's guess. And I guess... not so much. Though, I could be wrong; I was wrong about everything else.

It's harder to fall out of love. I mean truly fall out... to feel indifferent, without loving, without hating. I can't go back to hating him, of course, because then we'd end up having sex again. And the cycle starts all over. That's what happened the first time wasn't it?

It's just too bad he's not ugly. I'm sure I'm shallow enough to leave him if he were ugly. But even with all his sharpness, his sneers and scowls, he's still quite pretty. Ron says he looks like a pigment-impaired, plucked chicken. I think Ron fancies him. I would hand him over, but Ron doesn't accept charity; he would never want anything after I was through with it. You think me petty for talking about Draco like a thing, a possession. But that's not my doing. He insists he belongs to me. He started it, with all his talk of power and control. He says that Ron belongs to me, too. When did I get to be so materialistic?

I don't know whether Ron would be horrified or ecstatic. I think Ron fancies me too. It's not saying much since Ron fancies everybody. It's all he can do... it's all physical with him. When you get past that, you find a mess, and no one wants to deal with a mess. So I don't mind when he stays so superficial. I don't mind when anyone stays superficial because I am too. That's why it scares me when Draco claims to see more in me, claims to know what I want, what I dream about. It scares me that someone could know me better than I know myself. And that that someone should be him. When considering everything, it's no wonder I have a difficult time believing him when he says I control him and have power over him and everyone else around me.

I don't believe it. I don't want it to be true. I don't like the thought of having power over anyone. Power equals responsibility, and responsibility leads to guilt. I've had a life's worth of guilt; it's the thing that haunts me over everything else. Which is why he gives me this power. He knows how the cycle works. He knows where I'll end up when we're through. And he knows, that in the end, he will always be the one to come out on top.

End.


End file.
